


Saturday morning

by StAnni



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18984913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: He moves to get in, deciding not to look back at Eliot’s face “I’ll see you, Eliot.” But Eliot continues – his tone even but the pain evident in the way that he pauses, chooses his words. “I’m not fine.  Quentin.  By the way.”So Quentin turns to Eliot, ignores the slide of the doors close behind him and takes a few steps towards the door again – listening as Eliot continues. “But I’m not curled up in a corner.  And I’m pissed too, actually.”





	Saturday morning

Eliot’s penthouse door is wide open when Quentin gets out of the private elevator. In the hallway leading up to the gaping entrance he picks up Eliot’s jacket and an almost empty bottle of 1928 Krug, leaving a wet bloom on the carpet. 

Quentin puts everything down again when he bumps into the wards and with a sigh he starts with an intricate unlocking spell before he fumbles it twice, curses and then rings the doorbell.

He waits six full minutes before a compact and muscular blonde reaches the door, naked save only for a towel around his waist. “Can I help you?” Towel asks and he’s German and fucking devastating – all soft blue eyes and just a hint of dimples. “Is Eliot around?” Quentin asks and despite his efforts he can hear the sulk in his own voice, which is embarrassing. German Towel gives a polite nod “Sure” and calls to the direction of the main bedroom “El, it’s not roomservice.”, before he walks in the same direction. 

Eliot opens the wards as he walks to the door and he is freshly showered, his hair wet black and shiny and smelling of coconut and vanilla. “Oh,” he says, seeing Quentin and goes to stand in the door – not inviting him him. “What’s up, Q?”

Quentin this time doesn’t even bother to hide the vitriol as he hands Eliot the jacket and bottle “New friend?”  
Eliot, to his credit, doesn’t bite, puts the bottle on a side table inside the foyer and tosses the jacket next to it. “Pascal and I were pre-law, you know, pre-Brakebills.” He explains in a way that is clear that he doesn’t have to explain, not really.  
Quentin doesn’t buy it, “Pre-law?” and Eliot raises his eyebrows slightly, genuinely surprised for a moment “I never told you? Weird.” And repeats his initial greeting with a more pertinent tone, and too-polite smile “What’s up?”

Quentin can feel his blood slowly start to warm and he makes a mental note to ignore all calls from Margo in the future. “I came to see if you’re alright.”

“Why?” Eliot asks, giving a small shrug, and Quentin notices that his arms are a little bit broader. His eyes are clear and he looks good. Great actually - much better than he did a month ago. He is going to kill Margo.

“Beats me.” Quentin deadpans, but the irritation thickening in his throat “I see you’re fine, I’ll be on my way.” 

As he turns to walk back to the elevator Eliot folds his arms over his chest and leans against the wide door frame – Quentin can hear the smile in his voice “You’re jealous, you entitled brat.”

Quentin glances back and shakes his head, no – attempting casual, but he can’t stop the scorn from bleeding through in his response “I’m pissed. You made it sound to Margo like you’re gnawing at your own wrists here, when really you’re just banging your way through a hangover.” He presses the button for the elevator, looking away from Eliot’s unreadable expression “And I just had to take two trains to get here, so.”

Almost immediately the elevator doors ping and slide open – inviting him into the cool impersonally sleek interior but behind him Eliot calls, with just enough malice in his voice for Quentin to feel a cold bolt shoot through his heart “How is the honeymoon-pad by the way?”

He moves to get in, deciding not to look back at Eliot’s face “I’ll see you, Eliot.” But Eliot continues – his tone even but the pain evident in the way that he pauses, chooses his words. “I’m not fine. Quentin. By the way.”

So Quentin turns to Eliot, ignores the slide of the doors close behind him and takes a few steps towards the door again – listening as Eliot continues. “But I’m not curled up in a corner. And I’m pissed too, actually.”

When he got on the first train he accepted the fact that he knew that they would have to talk, really talk, soon. He expected a conversation which he may not be ready for. He’s not ready for it. He doesn’t think either of them really is ready for it. But here it is and here they are.

“I know.” He answers. Because it is true, and it is the basic underlining truth of where they all are now, two months later. It’s the reason Margo worries. It’s the reason why Julia avoids coming over to the new place. It’s the reason they’ve all been spiraling slowly further apart for the past eight weeks.

“I accept that you didn’t choose me. But now I get to choose someone else.” Eliot says, gently but firmly and his eyes, still unreadable, moves to meet Quentin’s. It’s not a shock. Or it shouldn’t be a shock. But hearing the words “someone else” from Eliot is like a spell that takes the air out of the room. 

“I know.” he sighs, he does know. He knows it in the contractions of his heart, the hollow heaviness of his stomach. He knows it in guilt crowding the tears back when Alice sometimes watches him, when she thinks that he doesn’t notice – like she is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Eliot, seeing his reaction, falters just for a second and says, quickly, apologetically “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

And Quentin knows that Eliot shouldn’t be apologizing to him. Nothing is fair. Ever. They are proof of that. “It’s alright. It’s true.” And Eliot takes a step towards him, out of the apartment, leaving less than four feet between them. His proximity is still, as it always is, almost intoxicating “I’m not suffering under a disillusion, Quentin. I know that I was the one who passed up on our chance and that you were and are with Alice.” He sighs, and Quentin has to look away from those eyes as he continues “I also know that it is not fair to blame you for this hurt. But it does hurt – this emptiness. I have to fill it.”

The silence between the swells and Quentin searches for the words. Eliot doesn’t push him. Eliot never pushes him. And when he does find the words, or at least, the closest approximation to the words that he is able, his voice feels as weak as his heart “I keep on thinking about things and things I can’t ask. If…I don’t know…” He doesn’t want to say it, he wants to not even breathe it around Eliot, but he has to “…if Alice and I ever got married…”

“Please don’t talk about that.”   
And Eliot is serious. His smile is soft and light, but straining at the corners and his eyes are down. If Quentin could draw in all the pain, pull that agony into himself – along with his own, he would, in a heart-beat. “I mean I guess I want you to know, to always know, no matter what, that I love you. More than anyone.” And he has said it before, so many times, and it will always be true “I love you.”

Eliot shakes his head slightly, eyes still averted but glazed now, tears glinting at the base of his long lashes. “That’s the part that sucks.”

Quentin reaches, touching Eliot’s fingers, white knuckled against his forearm and Eliot immediately opens the grip, accept the touch without hesitation. They stand like that, fingers entwined and inside the penthouse Quentin hears a kitchen cabinet open and shut loudly. Eliot gives a sad chuckle but doesn’t let go of Quentin’s fingers. His voice is low, heavy with emotion “Please, just…don’t fucking marry anyone, Q.”  
Quentin answers, swallowing against the lump in his throat “I won’t if you won’t.”


End file.
